La Buena Vida - 1970-1971

The assignment for the Life Writing class I'm taking was to make a timeline of important events in our lives, then write about one of those events. Here's my story (with added links and photos) about our move to Miami, Florida:

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In the summer of 1969 my husband, Richard, two daughters, eight-year-old Kim and six-year-old Kelli, and I moved back to our home in Orange, Texas after a six-month stay in Mentor-on-the-Lake, Ohio. As happy as we were to be home, it didn’t take long for us to realize at least one advantage of living away from there. Richard was my second husband. Our friends and families in Texas couldn’t resist giving us regular updates on the activities of my ex-husband or his ex-wife, reminders that plunged us momentarily into our separate, not-so-pleasant pasts. In Ohio it hadn’t been like that; new friends and neighbors there treated us like the bonded family unit we’d become since our marriage a year earlier.

That’s one reason why we didn’t hesitate to move again the next summer, 1970, when the number of East Texas construction jobs trickled down and Richard’s union spread the word that  the Turkey Point nuclear facility in Homestead, Florida, near Miami, was offering premium pay for highly skilled, certified welders. We put our house up for sale, sold it quickly, then waited around for both the closing date and my ten-year class reunion. Over the next few days we put our best furniture in storage, gave away the rest of it, then loaded up the station wagon and a small trailer, said our sad goodbyes, and took off early one morning for the bright lights and big city.

Our first bit of bad luck occurred about four hours into our trip when the station wagon broke down as we passed through a seamy-looking, industrial section of New Orleans. Richard managed to get the engine going again long enough to coax it to an auto-repair shop, where he parked and unhooked the trailer at the side of the lot. The family parked in the non-air-conditioned shop office, spending an entire afternoon and a hefty chunk of our savings there.

Upon our eventual arrival in Miami, we checked into a motel and settled in to stay for a few days. The next morning, after a Waffle House breakfast, Richard left to locate the nuclear plant, where he was tested for the better part of the day and hired to begin work the following day. Meanwhile, we began searching the newspaper for a furnished house in a good school district. The cantaloupe-colored, stucco-sided, two-bedroom house we found and rented was owned by a Cuban lady, Mrs. Phelps, who had recently moved to New Jersey, leaving behind cupboards full of dishes and an attic full of Christmas lights and decorations. The house was on a corner in a neighborhood of similar stucco, pastel-colored houses, the elementary school within easy walking distance. A fruit-laden mango tree grew in one corner of the backyard near a cluster of other small trees on which Mrs. Phelps had cultivated beautiful orchids.

Kelli and Kim in backyard of Miami house.

On our first full day in the house Richard went to work, I got busy putting the house in order, and the girls went outside to play. Moments later I heard a scream and looked out to see Kelli flat on the ground. She had tried to climb a tree in the front yard and had fallen from its branches. She was unconscious for a brief moment, her thoughts noticeably confused after she came around. I was panicking inside but tried to remain calm. We had sold our second car before the trip; I had no way to drive Kelli to an emergency room, even if I’d known where to find one. Our telephone wasn’t due to be installed for another day or two, so I couldn’t call for help, and we hadn’t yet met a single neighbor. All I knew to do was pray silently, put an ice bag on the bump on her head, and watch her constantly to keep her from falling asleep. As I remember it, she recovered long before I did.

On Richard’s first day off work we couldn’t wait to explore the tropical paradise we’d call home for the immediate future. We put our bathing suits on under our clothes, jumped into the station wagon, and drove over the bridge across Biscayne Bay to spend the day on glamorous Miami Beach. We were disappointed to discover that most of the beachfront property was inhabited by high-rise hotels and restricted to their guests. Finally, after driving around for a while, we spotted a stretch of beach that was accessible to us. Amazingly, it wasn’t even crowded. We undressed in the car, picked up our blanket, towels and picnic lunch, walked across an asphalt parking lot into the sand, and got our first clear view of the Atlantic Ocean. We were filled with excitement as we dropped our bundle and raced knee-deep into the gently lapping waves. The girls squatted down to immerse their bodies in saltwater up to their necks, and Kim stood up again almost immediately, saying, “Look! I found a balloon.” Kelli popped up right behind her: “I found one, too!” Each of them was holding up a used condom. Richard and I gaped at each other for a split second before he ordered, “Drop it and get out of the water; we’re going home.” Our first dip in the Atlantic Ocean had been in a stream of raw sewage from a nearby posh hotel. I don’t remember how we explained our sudden departure to the girls.

Things got better after that. The girls made friends in the neighborhood and more friends once school started. I was Kelli’s first-grade room mother and did my share of walking the same path they walked to school, usually with cookies or cupcakes in hand.

We quickly established favorite places to go in Miami: the Steak & Brew restaurant for Saturday night family dinners that included unlimited pitchers of root beer; the rock quarry where the girls could swim in clean, crystal-clear, fresh water; and, best of all, the grassy inlet where we could wade out and surf fish in saltwater. We baited our hooks with long strips of mullet and caught two-foot-long, hard-fighting barracuda, one right after another. Richard cleaned them on the spot, storing thick fillets in an ice chest to fry when we got home. We left those fishing trips feeling tired but happy. Richard drove while I rode shotgun with my bare feet on the dashboard and sang along with the radio about "me and you and a dog named Boo.” In the backseat the girls munched on fresh peaches, the dripping juices leaving trails in the dirt on their arms. We fished that same spot many weekends, abandoning it only after staying there till nearly dark one evening when Kelli got her line tangled on her last cast and Richard slowly inched it back in to find a five-foot shark on the end of it.

Kelli and Kim in crystal-clear waters of rock quarry.

We visited the popular tourist attractions, too, mostly when friends from Texas came to see us. Unenlightened in those days about the plight of dolphins, we thoroughly enjoyed their leaps, spirals and splashes at Miami Seaquarium. We visited the Serpentarium, fronted by the towering head of a giant, concrete cobra, and made numerous trips to Parrot Jungle & Gardens, a mecca of tropical plants and brilliantly colored birds where we took turns being photographed with parrots on our heads and outstretched arms. We went several times to the real tropical beach, the kind we’d expected in the first place, at Crandon Park on Key Biscayne. We’d alternate playing in the ocean and resting in the sand, frequently treated to Calypso rhythms on drums and guitars played by dreadlocked musicians set up under a tarp a little way down the beach. We also enjoyed watching the ever-present Limbo dancers: young, suntanned men and women who threw their heads back and laughed as they competed to answer the challenge: “How low can you go?”

Top to bottom: Kelli, Kim and Linda at Parrot Jungle

Kelli and Kim on the beach at Crandon Park

One day we traveled north of Miami into the Everglades National Park to show Kim and Kelli the wilderness, a place untouched by time (if you don’t count the wooden boardwalks with railings to keep fools and children from falling into the swamp). We took off once for a weekend mini-vacation in Key West, driving seemingly endless miles across narrow roads and bridges to see sea turtles and spectacular sunsets. Another day we woke the girls up before daylight and drove to Cape Canaveral (called Cape Kennedy then) to see the launch of Apollo 15. A lot of other people must have had the same idea, because what I remember most about that event was a vast sea of parked cars that stretched interminably around us. We waited and waited, in and out of the car, and finally saw in the distance a big puff of smoke that obscured the rocket-ship headed for the moon. 

At some point we did get a second car. Having the station wagon always available made my life easier, and the little blue Corvette (used) that Richard had fallen in love with was perfect for him to drive to work and for the rare nights we went out dancing. Those were the days when hot pants were in fashion, so I’d put on mine, either with go-go boots or Roman sandals with long straps that wrapped around my calves and tied behind my knees, and Richard would wear his striped, flare-legged pants and a gauzy shirt that had puffy pirate-sleeves and a big, pointed collar, leaving the shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He’d pick up the kids’ favorite baby sitter, then we’d head out in the Corvette for a night on the town. Miami was known for its nightlife, but it was expensive. Most of the nicer clubs had a three-drink minimum, and we limited ourselves to that. Fortunately, I never acquired a taste for liquor, so we’d both order bourbon with Coca-Cola on the side. I’d drink all the Coke, and Richard would drink the bourbon.

Linda, Kelli & Kim with Richard's blue Corvette.

Linda, posing with Flamenco dancer at Miami Beach nightclub. 

There were plenty of ordinary days in Miami, too. Richard worked from four to midnight, so I slept in shifts. I’d stay up until he got home around one in the morning, fix him something to eat while he unwound and we shared the news of the day, then we’d go to bed. I’d sleep for a few hours, get up to get the girls off to school, then go back to sleep another hour or two. After a while it began to feel normal. We had a house to clean, grocery shopping to do, dentist appointments to keep, all the things people need to do wherever they live. Somehow, though, surrounded as I was by dense greenery, vivid flowers and bright sunlight, I didn’t mind those chores and errands as much as usual.

In Miami I felt alive, almost electric, with a grand sense of freedom and adventure. We lived there for just over 18 months. When the nuclear expansion became operative and Richard’s job ended, we moved on to new places and new adventures, but I don’t think we were ever again as carefree as we’d been during our Florida days.

I’ve been told that Miami has changed in the forty-plus years since we were there, that it’s a harder, harsher place to raise a family now, not as safe as it once was. I guess that’s true of most places.

Substantial Bits of Nothing

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Two:  Your Shoes

I hate shopping for clothes, so when I find an item I like that's a good fit and sells for a good price, I tend to buy two or more of the same thing in different colors. That explains why there's a new pair of black shoes in my closet exactly like the old pair of black shoes presently on my feet. There's a new brown pair in the closet as well.

I love these shoes. They feel like going barefoot felt when I was young, before age wore down the natural fat pads on the soles of my feet. They feel better than going barefoot does now. They're lightweight but supportive, nothing but straps and cushiony soles.

I bought the first pair online in 2011 just before my sister and I went on our Smoky Mountain vacation. This is my third summer to live in that pair, which I've also worn in the house for two winters. The tread on the soles is beginning to wear down, so this summer I bought the second pair of black ones to keep on standby, along with the brown ones for variety.

If this post reads like a commercial, that wasn't my intention. I could have written about other shoes in my closet, prettier, more fashionable shoes that I might have described with phrases such as "brushed suede" or "buttery soft leather" or "heavily beaded straps" to make the post more interesting. But, even though I own those other shoes, I hardly ever wear them. As for my go-to shoes, the ones I wear constantly, I'd probably describe them as "substantial bits of nothing."

Hm. It seems that my favorite shoes and most of my blog posts have that in common.

Party Dress Pitfall

One-a-Day Redux
Day Five:  Something You Wore

I remember the party but not who threw it. I know I was in high school, it was the Christmas holiday season, and it was unseasonably warm, even by Southeast Texas standards. Most of all, I remember the dress, though I don't recall where it came from.

It was too "little-girly" to suit me. I was somewhere between 15 and 17 that late-1950s winter, tall, lanky, and not about to go to a party in a dress that had a demure little collar and short, puffed sleeves. A dress-up party, even in someone's home, was a special occasion. I wanted to look good.

Mother altered the dress for me. She took off the collar and took out the sleeves, leaving a sleeveless bodice with a modestly scooped neckline. The bodice was made of black velvet--not velveteen, but soft, smooth, squishy velvet. Mother used the sleeves she'd removed to make facings for the neckline and the new armholes, which made them thicker than usual, but the extra padding didn't show.

The skirt was, um ... unusual. I used to think it was made of some kind of heavy-duty taffeta, but in hindsight the kind of nylon we see in windbreakers and backpacks nowadays seems closer. Whatever the fabric was, it was shiny, ivory-colored, shot through at random with gold metallic streaks and overlaid in a hexagonal pattern of black flocking that looked like nothing so much as chicken wire. It was a circle skirt, which meant the hem tended to sag ever so slightly in the bias-cut areas, but at least there were no gathers to bunch up under the wide, velvet-encased belt.

(With the help of a chicken-wire image I found on Google, I've tried to draw you a picture of the finished dress. You can enlarge it by clicking on it.)

The dress might not have been one I'd have chosen off the rack, but after Mother finished reworking it, it wasn't bad. It was appropriate to wear to the party, and I felt like I looked nice in it. I thought the velvet would be pleasing to the touch of a dance partner.

Depending on what year it was, I might or might not have had a date to that party; frankly, I don't remember. All I know is that I danced enough to perspire more than my heavily applied roll-on deodorant for ladies could handle. It was warm in that dimly lit den, and I was grateful that the bodice of my dress, being thick and black and all, wouldn't show how much I was sweating.

I danced awhile longer, then picked up the little party purse I'd borrowed from Mother and headed to the restroom. Comb in hand, I raised my arms to touch up my damp, stringy hair. What I saw in the mirror looked pretty much like this:

Much of the nap from the velvet had transferred itself to my moist armpits. I could wash it off, but I couldn't keep it off without holding my arms in the air for the rest of the night.

I don't recall a thing that happened after that embarrassing discovery. The fact that I remember the fuzzy armpits so clearly after all these years makes me pretty sure I didn't dance anymore and equally sure I couldn't wait to get out of there and go home. I cared a whole lot about what people thought of me when I was in my teens.

These days, at least if I were among friends, I might get a kick out of flashing those furry armpits.

Patterns

I've been on a cleaning spree recently. Really. I have. Well, maybe "spree" isn't the right word, given the pace at which I've been working, but I've been making a little progress each day and hope to have all my spring cleaning done before summer officially arrives.

Last week I cleaned out my closet, pulling out all the too-big-but-not-by-much garments I'd kept from the last round of closet cleaning (in 2011) just in case I didn't maintain the weight loss that was fairly new at that time. Now I feel confident in sending those items to Goodwill, too.

There are a few things in the donation bag this time that I'm going to miss, even though I haven't been able to wear them for a long time. If I didn't need the extra closet space--and if I thought I'd ever take them apart and make something out of the fabric--I'd keep them. I probably wouldn't get around to that, though, and I'm sure there's someone else out there who might enjoy them as much as I have.

Realizing that it's the fabric, not the garment, that I love, I decided to take a few pictures. That way I can give them away and keep them, too.

This is a soft, stretchy, pullover blouse I wore frequently the last year

 I worked. It has short sleeves, so I wore it in warm weather,

then added a black cardigan when the temperature dropped.

Another black pullover blouse, this one so much older

than the first one that I can't remember for sure when I got it.

If I'm not mistaken, it dates back to the late 1990s. 

I liked it enough that I didn't get rid of it during all the years

when it was too small. Lots of age on it, but not too much wear.

This is an ankle-length skirt I bought to wear to a

wedding in 2007. As much as I like it, I don't think

I've ever worn it again. I never stopped admiring it;

I just don't go many places where I need to dress up.

This is a short-sleeved, embroidered, summer sweater, another
item I've had for a long time. I bought the sweater with a

pair of buttery yellow slacks to wear on vacation in 2004.

These are the only four garments I photographed. It hadn't occurred to me until I looked at the photos side-by-side that the four fabrics share a particular design element: leaves. As someone who loves botanical prints, who photographs trees and leaves excessively because she can't resist the beauty of them, I shouldn't be surprised that leaves show up in my favorite clothing. But I am. I had no idea there was a pattern to my fashion choices.

Next time I do some serious shopping, maybe I'll look for other leafy prints to replace these. In the meantime, there's an unfortunate but distinct jeans-and-T-shirt pattern going on in my freshly cleaned-out closet.

That Suit

It's funny what offbeat memories pop up to surprise you years and years after you last gave them a thought. Looking for a particular old photo this morning, I came across this one from the summer of 1960:

Me 'n' somebody.

That's a 17-year-old me, lifting my head to scowl at whoever had the audacity to take a picture of us sunbathing. I couldn't tell you if that's one of my sisters or my friend Jude beside me on the blanket, but I can tell you about my bathing suit.

I'd graduated high school that May and started working three days later as a secretary at a law firm. For the first time in my life I had more than babysitting money in my purse. I earned $50 a week ($47 after taxes), gave Mother $10 of it for room and board, and had the rest to spend on clothes and a few 45-rpm records. This bathing suit was the first one I'd ever picked out and paid for by myself. It was a light olive-green with an intricate beige and white pattern on it. I loved the way it fit. (Yes, I can see that the bosom was puckered, but I was lying on my back, people. Give me a break!)

At some point that summer, definitely after I'd bought the swimsuit, I went to see Where the Boys Are, a movie about college boys and girls having a wild time in Florida on spring break. Those kids were having so much fun. If I'd gone to college, I thought, I could be one of those girls meeting all those boys.

Then Dolores Hart stepped out on the beach in a bathing suit. My bathing suit. I couldn't have been prouder. What an affirmation of my newly developing, "big salary"-funded, sense of style.

Dolores Hart

In the movie (no doubt thanks to the bathing suit), Dolores Hart's character became involved with a handsome rich guy, played by George Hamilton:

Dolores Hart and George Hamilton

I had no one that summer. Not even an ugly poor boy. That would change by the end of the year, and by the end of the following summer I'd be married and living 200 miles away from my parents.

I went on to have two kids in quick succession, beautiful daughters I wouldn't trade for the world. Dolores Hart went on to become a nun. The courses of our lives diverged drastically, but for that one summer, we both did our best to rock that swimsuit.

Thinking Outside the Shoebox

One-a-Day Photo Challenge
Day Twenty-Two:  Your Shoes

At the bottom of the photo above are two pairs of shoes grabbed from my closet at random. ("Random" in this case means they were at the top of the heap.) These are representative of the shoes I wear now: always flat, almost always with non-skid soles.

At the top of the picture, lined up carefully and lovingly on an overturned basket, are a few pieces from my collection of four-inch shoe sculptures. Those represent the kind of shoes I always imagined myself wearing.

Heh.

Grab Your Coat and Get Your Hat

One-a-Day Photo Challenge
Day Eighteen:  Something You Bought

While I was Christmas shopping for others, I bought this knit cap for myself:

It might make you think I'm a sports fan. I'm sure that if I were a sports fan, I'd join the throngs who cheer for LSU, but the truth is I've never been interested in sports. Unless you count gymnastics and figure skating.

This cap was the first one I saw on that shopping trip, and I'm a big fan of warm ears.

Golden Earrings

One-a-Day Photo Challenge

Day Five:  Something You Wore

When I was a child, it was rumored that there were two kinds of women who had their ears pierced: gypsies and floozies. Nice women wore earrings, of course, but they were the clip-on kind. The kind that inflicted torture on tender lobes.

By the time my daughters were young teens, pierced ears had become mainstream, and my girls were allowed to follow the fashion. I was chicken, though. I believe it was on my 42nd birthday that my mother and sister took me to an East Texas mall and convinced me to get my own ears pierced.

I was delighted with the look and with the fact that I could wear earrings that didn't pinch, but my body wasn't as excited as I was about the style change. Over and over my earlobes became infected until finally I gave up and let the pierced holes heal closed.

After that I tried for a while to go back to wearing clip-on earrings, but I was older then, and wiser, and no longer willing to tolerate the pain that went along with having something shiny dangling from my ears. I gave up earrings altogether. That was probably at least 15 years ago.

And yet I still have most of them, matching pairs tucked away in a drawer. I don't know why I've kept them. They aren't valuable. All but the smallest ones are gold-plated at best, and there are no special memories attached to any of them. Now that I've pulled them out to photograph them, it would make sense to get rid of them, but, honestly, I don't know if I'm ready to do it.

When I realized this morning that I'll probably put the earrings right back where they came from, I asked myself why I'm attached to them. The only answer that seems to make sense is that they represent a time when femininity was a larger part of my life than it is now. A time of earrings, high heels, flirty dresses, and strong attractions to good-looking men.

I've moved on from those days and haven't missed them in a long, long time. My life today is happy and full, and my style leans more toward casual and comfortable. But those days, those girlier days? They were mostly good ones, too.

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It's Day 5 of the photo challenge, and it's also Saturday, so I've selected a song that fits nicely with today's photo. (If I'd gone in a different direction for the photo challenge, you'd be listening to lyrics that contain the words, "blue jean baby queen.")

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The song is "Golden Earrings" by Willie Nelson.

Thanks to Panaglotis Giaourtsakos for posting the video on YouTube.
Click here for the lyrics.

There's Nothing Sepia About This Saturday (except this post)

It is a glorious, technicolor day, warm but not hot, with a breeze that feels like a soft caress on my face and arms. Everything about this day shouts "SPRING!" Nevertheless, here I sit, indoors at the computer, because challenges intrigue me just that much.

This week's Sepia Saturday prompt is GOING OUT, and it almost stumped me. I have plenty of old photos of people who are dressed up but don't appear to be going anywhere. There are people lined up on stairsteps and people posing on the street, in a park, even two people dressed up in business clothes on a beach. Other folks are wearing their going-out clothes but are, in fact, merely posing formally in a photographer's studio.

I considered using one particular photo of a large group of family members gathered on the front steps because I'm pretty sure that all those relatives were in the same place at the same time because of a funeral. I thought that one could be twisted to fit the theme, but then I realized that the honoree of the occasion, the person who was actually "going out," wasn't in the shot.

Finally I found two photos I thought would do. The first one dates back to the 1940s and features my grandmother, Lola.

She was definitely out and about, but she doesn't look very happy about it. She was a very pleasant person and probably would have had a happier expression on her face if she'd been going to meet her lady friends for lunch or a movie, so I'm thinking there's nothing festive about this photo. She might have been going to work. Or to the dentist. Or maybe she was going someplace fabulous and was just annoyed that some mid-20th century paparazzo popped out and snapped her picture.

The only other photo I found that somewhat fits the theme is one I know I've posted here before, though I don't remember when or in what context. This one is from late 1944 or early 1945 and stars...moi.

I was clearly pretending that I was going out, just as I am pretending today that these two photos suit the theme. In this picture I was obviously discussing the feeding schedule of my child with her babysitter (my uncle Joe). I don't know where I thought I was going, but with those shoes and that killer hat, it must have been someplace fancy.

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We're going out for today's Saturday Song Selection, too. Where? Why, "Downtown," of course:

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The song (from 1964) is "Downtown" by Petula Clark.

(Click here to read the lyrics.) 

Thanks to nyrainbo2 for posting this video on YouTube.

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Click the image below

 to see a list of other bloggers who are GOING OUT this week:

Sepia Saturday: Hazel and the Bob

Hazel Belle Willis was 16 years old when she wrote the following in her diary:

May 22, 1923:
I'm simply dying to bob my hair! But John [her stepfather] says I can't--Mama says maybe I can.--so there! Oh, yes! the most important thing happened last Sat.,--Marie had her hair bobbed! Lucky child!

A few days later Hazel met my great-uncle, Loren Elliott, who was a year older than she. She wrote about it here:

May 26, 1923:
Well, caro diary, the seniors graduated last night. Flo saw Loren Elliot as she was coming home--and he asked where I live--she told him--so tonight Clifford & Flo--Loren and I went to the show. I don't know him hardly at all--but Flo says he's nice--so I guess she knows--he certainly seems nice, anyway.

Several later entries in Hazel's diary mention that she received letters from Loren, and others mention visits, which leads me to believe they must have lived in neighboring towns that summer. Her comments about Loren were always favorable, but she certainly wasn't swooning over him. In those early days of their acquaintance, Hazel seemed more interested in her friends--and her hair:

June 13, 1923:
Oh honey, 13 is my lucky number!--I had my hair bobbed about an hour ago,--surely am glad--but feel awful silly.

Hazel was a beauty, and Loren must have liked the bob. He stuck around. They were married in 1926, three years after that summer when they first met, and they stayed married for more than 64 years, until Loren's death in 1991.

Hazel herself passed away in 1997. My mother and sister went to Florida for her funeral, and Mother brought back Hazel's diaries and gave them to me. I love to pull out one of those diaries from time to time, to read Hazel's brief commentaries, to see what things she stuck between the pages.

She was beautiful on the inside, too.

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In keeping with the content of this post, here's today's Saturday Song Selection:

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The song is "Diary" by Bread.

Thanks to cyberman000051 for posting this video on YouTube--and for including the lyrics.

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Click the image below

 to see what other bloggers have posted this week

for Sepia Saturday's HAIR theme:

No butts about it

Ronni Bennett's post about fashion this morning reminded me of a story I'd almost forgotten to tell you. It happened on the first day of my recent vacation.

The plan was for my sister to call me when she left her home in Texas, which she did. I knew I'd have three hours from then to load all my ready-for-packing clothing into luggage, bathe, put on makeup, and get dressed. I wanted to dress at the last minute so my traveling clothes would be fresh.

The problem was that my sister made really good time and arrived half an hour early. I still wasn't dressed. My daughters were here to see us off, so they visited with their aunt while I hurried around in my bathrobe to finish up. I threw on my clothes as fast as I could, then we were ready to hit the road.

I had chosen to travel in a chocolate brown T-shirt, brown sandals, and a pair of light-khaki pants. I'd picked that outfit specifically because of the pants. They were lightweight, didn't wrinkle much, had an elastic waist, and were about one size too large for me--not so large that they were ugly-baggy, but plenty roomy.

As the day progressed, I was comfortable and pleased with my choice. We stopped a few times that first day, for gasoline, restrooms, and cold drinks. At one of those stops I attempted to put change in my pocket, only to realize there were no pockets. "Hm," I thought to myself, "I could have sworn these pants had pockets." No big deal, right? I didn't give it another thought.

We traveled through three states that first day: Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. Just after dark we stopped for the night at a hotel in Montgomery, Alabama. It was late and we were hungry, so we dropped off our luggage in our hotel room, took turns in the bathroom, then picked up our purses to head out for dinner.

My hand was on the doorknob when my sister yelled, "Stop!" I turned around to see what was the matter and saw her laughing and pointing at me. "Your pants," she giggled. "The fly is in the back." Indeed it was. So were the pockets. I had displayed myself across three states with my pants on backwards.

I would have been embarrassed, but I knew I'd never see any of those people again in my lifetime, so I just turned the pants around and went about my business. In fact, the more I thought about it, the funnier it got. But then I thought about it some more and the humor began to wear off a little.

I wore my pants backwards--through three states--and couldn't tell the difference. What does that say about the shape of my recently slimmed-down butt?

Comeuppance

Earlier in the week I went clothes shopping, a chore I've absolutely detested in recent years. This time, though, I was kind of excited about it. I've now lost 64 pounds, and as my body has slimmed (although not yet to the point where it needs to be), my clothing choices have widened, making shopping much less stressful. I must admit that as I waited in line I felt a sort of smug satisfaction, pleased that I had found what I was looking for in my size -- on sale, no less.

As the cashier began to ring up my purchases, I noticed that the window on my side of the cash register showed the cost of each item as well as a brief description of it. What caught my attention was the last item the cashier had rung up, a blouse with big buttons on it. The truncated message in the cash register window read:  "$19.99 BIG BUTT."

Maybe so, but I'm still working on it.

Oh, say can you see?

You bet I can! Last week I went for an eye exam and ordered new glasses. They came in yesterday.

I bought my last pair of eyeglasses just after the style changed to the narrower, rectangular lenses. At the time I was afraid that might be a fad, so I chose some that were slightly smaller than the pair I was replacing, but otherwise very similar. That was in 2004. Little did I know then that my prescription would stay the same for the next seven years.

So here we are in 2011, and the 2004 glasses are beginning to fall apart. The right lens falls out every couple of weeks, which means I have to sit there and blindly attempt to hold everything together while I tighten the tiny screw with something so small it has no business being called a screwdriver.

The repetitious falling apart thing, plus the fact that the lenses were covered with little, almost invisible scratches, made me decide it was time to get new ones. Even though I had thought I could see perfectly with the old glasses, the eye exam showed that my prescription has indeed changed. But only slightly.

When I put the new glasses on yesterday, so much light came through the lenses that it hurt my eyes until I got used to it. And in the "old glasses" photo below, I notice that the color of my eyes is muted. Apparently those old lenses were more scratched than I'd realized.

Old glasses

New glasses

So, the bad news is that my brand-new eyeglasses have been in fashion for at least seven years, and the style is bound to change before I'm ready to buy the next pair.

But the good news tickles me to death! After years and years and years of struggling to tweeze my eyebrows, I can finally reach my brows with the tweezers and see what I'm doing at the same time.

No more excuses for any pesky Andy-Rooney-looking hairs.

Pot Pourri

It's a beautiful day today, about sixty degrees outside.  Rain is predicted to begin any minute, but right now the sun is shining, the dogs are sleeping, and it seems like a good time  for a blog update.  Here goes:


That cold thing:  
My last post was a short one about being cold. Little did I know when I wrote it that it wasn't just the low outside temperature that made me feel so chilly; it was also the first day of The Mother of All Head Colds. Today is the first day in a week I've felt halfway decent, and I still don't go too far away from the Kleenex box. I'm grateful to Kim, who made one drugstore trip and two grocery runs for me during the week, and to Kelli, who brought me two nights' worth of supper this afternoon.


The Tucson shootings:
I'm sure most people who intended to write about this have already done so, and I don't have anything to add to what's already been seen on TV or read online about this specific incident. I do have some strong opinions about the need for more stringent gun control, though, and I wrote about the reasons for those opinions nearly four years ago. If you missed reading it the first time -- and if you're interested -- you can click on this link.


Running with scissors:
About the only thing I accomplished all week was to clear off my kitchen counters and dining table of anything that didn't absolutely need to be there. On the day before I did that, my head was so full of fluid that any sudden movement sent me spinning. Levi saw my slow movements as an opportunity. At one point I heard a clanging sound in the kitchen. By the time I got up to see what had happened, he was in the den, lying on his belly on the futon, with my kitchen scissors in his mouth.

This time it was a hawk:

I recently posted about taking pictures of "hawks" that turned out to be buzzards, so this morning when I saw a very large bird swoop down and land on top of a tree just beyond my back fence, I was skeptical. I photographed it anyway and I'm glad I did. I knew there was a hawk around here somewhere.

Standing the test of time:
I snapped this picture while I watched "The Today Show" yesterday morning:

That's Meredith Vieira with the Video1 superimposed over her head. (I've tried everything I know to get that thing off my TV set, but it's still there, all the time.) What interested me was the outfit she was wearing, because I wore a nearly identical one 42 years ago:

Hemlines were higher in 1969, and heels were lower, but that basic black-knit, turtleneck  dress still works.

Talking about TV:
Last Wednesday night I watched "Off the Map," the new series produced by the people responsible for "Grey's Anatomy." I think I'm gonna like it, although the initial episode didn't hook me the way "Grey's" did. Tonight I'll watch "Harry's Law," because I love  Kathy Bates and because this show is the brainchild of the folks who created "Boston Legal." Then, this upcoming Wednesday marks the return of my guilty pleasure, "American Idol."

Are there any new shows you're excited about?

Please, Mr. Heater Man, come and turn it on again!

The air grew cold on Thursday night,
So Friday, when I rose,
My fingertips wore icicles,
And frost was on my nose.

The heater blasted out cold air.
I shivered in the chill
And knew I'd have to call for help,
No matter what the bill.

I called the AC/heater man,
And he arrived by ten.
He needed parts he didn't have,
So left and came again.

At two he came the second time
And climbed the attic stairs.
He tried this thing and then tried that
And maybe whispered prayers.

It seemed that nothing he tried worked.
The pilot light ignited
But cut itself back off again
Before the furnace lighted.

He called this job "the devil" but
Would not accept defeat.
He fiddled with a grounding wire
And finally got some heat.

He finished at four-thirty and,
As I was pleased to see,
He ate the hours he'd wasted
And did not charge them to me.

I settled on the sofa as
Warm air began to blow.
I felt all comfy, cozy,
Because then I didn't know

That four short hours later
It would all begin anew:
The heater fan was on full force,
But only cold air blew.

I'd wasted all day Friday with
The heater service man
And so decided not to have
Him come right out again.

Instead, I'd tough it out, I thought,
And get some errands run
And call him first thing Monday
After all my chores were done.

So extra blankets kept me warm
When weekend nights grew cold,
But frosty mornings let me know
My bones are getting old.

I turned the bathroom heater on,
The oven, then the dryer,
To try to raise the temperature
At least a little higher,

And here I stand on Sunday morn,
Ashamed of what I'm wearing,
But if you ever get this cold,
You'll thank me, then, for sharing.

That's me, right there on the red carpet

Interviewer: Umm, you're on the red carpet, so I know I'm supposed to know you, but could you say your name for the viewers, please?

VS (leaning over to speak directly into the mic): Velvet. Sacks. My name is Velvet Sacks.

Interviewer: Uh, yeah, right, where are my notes? Ummm, Miz Sacks, can you tell us a little bit about your latest show...um, film...er, album?

VS: Well, I don't have a show or film or album; I have a blog.

Interviewer: A blog? Like on the Internet? Like thousands and thousands of other people have?

VS: Precisely.

Interviewer: And is your blog famous?

VS: Well, there are at least half a dozen people who read it regularly. Plus family. Well, not all my family, of course, some of them are busy with actual lives.

Interviewer: Oh, I see, well, ummm...tell us who you're wearing tonight.

VS: Dress Barn. Plus.

Interviewer: Hmmm, we don't see that here too often. Can you tell us what kind of fabric that is?

VS (rolling eyes): It's velvet, okay? Between the heavy, fuzzy fabric and the TV-adds-10-pounds thing, people are gonna think I'm fatter than I really am.

Interviewer: Heh-heh. Well, tell us why you're here tonight. Have you been nominated for something?

VS: Nominated, my ass! I've already won two awards, you doofus, and the most recent one was for being nice! Can you freakin' believe it? Now get outta my way; I need to get inside and see if they have any of those little finger sandwiches.

_______________________


Jackie gave me this award, and I'm delighted, if somewhat embarrassed, to accept it. While I don't think I'm a mean person, "nice" isn't the first adjective I'd apply to myself. Are there any graphic artists out there who could digitally transform this into a "Not Usually a Jerk Award"? That might come just a little closer to the real me.

Jackie also posted these words that go along with the award: “This award is for those bloggers who are nice people; good blog friends, and those that inspire good feelings and inspiration. Also for those who are a positive influence on our blogging world. Once you have been awarded, please pass it on to seven others whom you feel are deserving of this award.”

Now, that last part I can do. I can think of way more than seven nice people I've met through blogging. Many of them have already received this award, and since every recipient is supposed to send it to seven others, I'm scrambling to get this list up fast.

I'm honored to present the "Nice Matters Award" to:

Austin of The People Behind My Eyes;

Maxngabbie of Maypoles of Life;

The four sisters who are quite nice but try their best not to show it:

Patsy of My Life and Times;

Betty of Galla Creek Ephemeris;

Helen of A Little of This-n-That; and

Fleta of Dirt Road Lives.

The seventh blogger whom I've chosen to recognize with the "Nice Matters Award" is, ta-dahhhhh:

Robbin with 2 B's of Cedar Chest of Dreams.

Robbin is, coincidentally, the person who gave me my very first award, the "Rockin' Girl Blogger Award," back in July. As much as I appreciated it, I missed my window of opportunity and then felt awkward writing about it: "I got this really nice award a lonnnnnnng time ago." I thanked Robbin on her blog, but if I'd had my ducks in a row back then, if I hadn't been so lethargic, and, well, if I'd been a nicer person, I would have been much quicker to post the award and thank her here. Sorry for the delay, Robbin. It does mean a lot that you thought of me when passing out these awards.

Speaking of passing out, I know this post is getting extremely long, but if you can take a deep breath and hang with me a bit longer, I'm supposed to give out five of the "Rockin' Girl Blogger" awards. These, I'm proud to send out to a special Fab Five:

Carmon of Life at Star's Rest;

Janet of Janet's Ordinary Life;

Alison of Inspired Work of Self-Indulgence;

Holly of Creekhiker; and, bringing us full circle:

Jackie of Jackie's Garden.

Not only do these ladies rock; they're nice, too. In fact, all of them have already received an award for that.

__________________________


P.S. Just for the record, I didn't forget about Annie of Little Rock Daily Photo fame. Other people beat me to her.

Somewhere along this dusty road, the clotheshorse died.

On the Monday after I graduated from high school I started working for an East Texas law firm. On Friday of that week I got my first-ever paycheck: $47 after taxes. I paid Mother $10, the amount we'd agreed would be reasonable room and board for someone of my new "adult-working-girl" status. Because I'd never learned to drive, a neighbor who worked across the street from my office took me to and from work each day; in exchange, I gave her gas money. I went to lunch every day with another secretary, mostly to places where we could get a good, hot, plate lunch for $1. Those were my only expenses. I spent the rest of my money on clothes.

My lunch buddy, Jo, had established relationships with the owners and managers of all the best clothing stores in town. They'd call her a day or two ahead of each big sale they planned, and we'd schedule our daily lunch hours around that insider information. We'd choose a restaurant near our target store, eat as quickly as possible (I still eat too fast as a result of that training), and shop until it was time to go back to work.

During that year, I bought beautiful clothes, dresses I could sketch in detail today if I were talented in that way. I loved them all and wore them well. The sizes were consistent from label to label, so I could pick my size off the rack and it would fit as if it had been designed for me. At 50 percent off, and with the help of layaway, I bought pretty much what I wanted.

Some days we shopped only for shoes, and I had shoes in every color. The most popular shoes in the early '60s were pointed-toe pumps with stiletto heels, much like the ones I see for sale today. I remember specifically a pair of wedgwood blue pumps that were so beautiful -- and so inexpensive at their sale price -- that I bought them even though I didn't own one thing to wear with them. Over the next couple of weeks I managed to find a shirtwaist dress and a purse in that exact shade of blue. The dress and purse were not on sale, unfortunately, so those "cheap" shoes ended up costing me a sizable amount.

Are you wondering why I'm spending so many words to describe my clothing excesses of more than 40 years ago? The reason, I guess, is to help you understand how much I've changed in all those years. Today, I would rather spend an hour strapped naked to a tree in a mosquito-infested rain forest than spend that same hour shopping for clothes. Sizes are inconsistent, age-appropriate styles are limited, plus-sized fashions are generally unfashionable, and prices, in my opinion, are ridiculous.

Still, I bit the bullet earlier in the week and spent a couple of hours to supplement my deteriorating work wardrobe. You want to know what I bought? Three pairs of black pants (each cut differently to accommodate varying levels of water retention) and four sweaters, all identical except for the color. The part of me that used to be aghast at repeating a look within a two-week period has grown to embrace the idea of a "uniform."

There are advantages to growing older, not the least of which are (1) I've become more or less invisible, and (2) I couldn't care less.

That's a Croc -- er -- crock!

A teaser on the noontime news today said, "Coming up, those Crocs may be fashionable and comfortable, but they can be dangerous, too. Stay tuned." Well, that's just my luck. The Crocs have relieved my foot pain so much that it just stands to reason they're gonna maim me in some other way.

When the actual news report came on after the commercial break, it was a story about children (one or two maybe?) who have sustained serious foot injuries after their Crocs were swallowed at the bottom of an escalator. And this would be the shoe's fault how? Give me a break.

When we lived in New York, way back in the early '70s, my daughters and I witnessed a child, a rather big boy, actually, getting his foot caught in a department-store escalator. His shrieks made a lasting impression on all of us, and I have no doubt that it was painful and frightening. But the boy we saw was wearing sneakers, not Crocs. Crocs hadn't even been invented yet.

The newscaster stated that recent incidents occurred on older escalators, ones that had worn down and no longer had a tight mechanical fit at the bottom. So shouldn't the news-fingers be pointed at escalators instead of shoes? I guarantee you, if the thick sole of a Croc could get sucked into the moving parts of an escalator, so could most other children's shoes.

So here's my suggestion: If your child doesn't wear steel-toed shoes, and if your child can't be taught to step off the escalator when it reaches the bottom -- you know the kind of kid I mean, the one who'll just stand in one spot and let the escalator do the work of pushing him off at the end -- then there's only one thing to do: You ride behind him, one step back, and be vigilant. Hold your purse and all your packages in one arm and place your other hand on the railing. When that bottom step starts to flatten out in front of your child, let go of the railing, reach out fast with your free arm, and either pick that kid up or shove him hard! He may skin his knees, but his feet won't get caught in the shoe-eating escalator.

Happy feet

Today was an excellent day, even though I didn’t expect it to be. When I woke up this morning, I knew this was the day I’d have to grit my teeth and go to Wal-Mart. It’s been several weeks since I last made a major grocery shopping trip, and there was no way I could postpone it any longer. The “dogs” at the end of my legs would just have to suffer so my fur-covered dogs and I would have food.

Fortunately, my older daughter gave me a gift yesterday afternoon of my first pair of Crocs. These may be the ugliest shoes I’ve ever owned, but, omigod, they’re comfortable! Usually, after buying a month’s worth of groceries and putting them away, my feet are screaming and the rest of my day is wasted. Today, my feet and legs were a little bit tired. That’s all. And they recovered after a brief rest.

I realize some of you have a higher standard of fashion than plastic/rubber shoes (not to mention any names, Rebekah). Rest assured, I plan to order some dressier shoes from a couple of the sites y'all recommended. There are times when I need to look like a girly-woman and/or a professional. But I’m gonna order more Crocs, too. I could get used to having something on my mind other than aching feet.

So, the first part of my day was excellent because I got the grocery shopping done, right down to the excessive purchase of you-know-what, and I still had enough spring in my step to attend a barbecued-rib cook-off this afternoon.

The cook-off was the most excellent part of the day. I'll tell you more about it in my next post. For now, facing the cold, hard fact that I have to go back to work tomorrow, I’ll take my full belly -- and my relatively okay feet -- to bed. I will sleep well tonight.

Maximum mall bangs

Prompted by my sister's joy at meeting her newest grandchild yesterday, I've been thinking off and on all day about the differences between parenting and grandparenting and how much easier the latter is. I don't know whether the difference lies in an increase of patience as we grow older or a decrease in responsibility. After all, we grandparents can hand the kids back at the end of the day.

One specific Saturday with my granddaughter stands out. She was eight years old. She'd stayed with me the night before, and we were headed to the movies to see Beethoven, a Disney movie about a St. Bernard. She had her picture taken at the movie theater that day, her head resting on the back of a live St. Bernard that was there for just that purpose. I wish I had that picture to prove my point, but I'm sure she took it home with her that evening.

Up until that day, if she stayed with me, she'd let me do her hair before we went out. That time, though, she told me she could do it herself. She opened her suitcase to show me she'd brought all the necessary equipment. I loved her beautiful hair, blond and hanging to the middle of her back. All it needed, I thought, was a good brushing, and she could certainly do that.

Wrong! She stepped out of the bathroom with her hair looking as bad as I'd ever seen it. She had teased the front into the most atrocious pile of mall bangs you can imagine and sprayed them to stand about five inches high above her forehead. The thing was, though, when I was finally able to tear my eyes away from those bangs and look at her face below them, I saw a beautiful child who was positively beaming with pride. She thought she looked wonderful. That was all I needed to know. The bangs stayed. I told her how proud I was of her that she could fix her hair herself, and we went to the movies.

If either of my own daughters had botched a hairdo at that same age, I'm sure I'd have stepped in to redo it before I let them out in public. They might have messed it up later, but by golly, they were going to walk out the door looking good. I wonder now if I did that for them, or if I did it because their appearance might reflect on my motherhood credentials.

By the time my granddaughter came along, how she felt about herself was way more important to me than what strangers at the movie theater might think of either of us. I wouldn't have burst her bubble of pride for anything in the world.

In my own childhood, my mother was the critical one who pushed me to do better, and my grandmother was the one who just loved me the way I was. I preferred the unconditional approval, of course, but the things my mother taught me were important to my becoming a civilized human being with a modicum of socially acceptable behavioral skills.

If I came to any conclusion today, it was this: mothers and grandmothers have different roles to fulfill. Working together, we provide a pretty good balance.


Five generations in 1984: L-R, my mother, my grandmother, my granddaughter, me (speaking of big hair), my younger daughter.